I talked with my grandmother for several hours tonight, touching on many subjects.
Money quotes: “Too many people want God to be theirs, instead of being God’s.”
“More and more, I have stopped mentioning all the little details in prayer. I just pray that the Lord will fill up our family so full of His love—like a cup that will overflow if one more drop is added—so there is no room for anything else bad. The love of God makes no room for our bad stuff.”
My grandfather (D-daddy, as he is known to the family and a few outsiders) has the beginning stages of Parkinson’s, three microphones in each ear, a bad back, and prior cornea surgery. My grandmother (Mom-mom) is spunky, outspoken and thoroughly able to complete any task as long as it falls beneath the level of a triathlon. She has the particular gift of hospitality. Seriously, even a PB&J snack looks as if it was prepared for a king. And Thanksgiving? I’ll just say her meals are the only ones I know of that get five-star critics to make house calls. Visiting them was like going on a progressive dinner tour of Zagat’s.
My grandparents still love each other dearly. After mealtime prayers, D-daddy always pulls Mom-mom’s hand close, kisses it, and then waits for her eyes to meet his and for her to feel how his heart feels toward her. Always. Even considering the effects of Parkinson’s.
My grandmother related this story to me. One evening after dinner, she sat down at the table and announced to my grandfather that she would like some pie. The pie was right behind her on the counter, so she was fully able to get it herself. Grinning from ear to ear, my grandfather got up, made her some decaf coffee and brought her the dessert—as if he was the most chivalric knight in shining armor from age-old enchanted stories. He knew she still wanted him to be her hero.
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